Free The Dragon's Village: An Autobiographical Novel of Revolutionary China by Yuan-Tsung Chen

bobbed hair. Now she was a girl soldier like those we had seen in the propaganda pictures. I had changed my long pageboy hairdo to a straight bob cut just below my ears. It seemed more appropriate to life in a farming village.
    A bell clanged a warning to us all to take our seats. For one awkward moment, all the good-byes said, there was nothing more to say. Anyway, I had no one special to say good-bye to except office friends. My uncle had already left Shanghai. Impatient to leave, we kept eyeing the station clock. Two minutes. One minute. The first whistle. There was a wave of movement across the platform as alate arrival pushed his way through the crowd. Of course it was our amateur archaeologist, Hu, late as usual. We shouted and beckoned him to hurry, but with packets and bags big and small under both arms threatening to slip down at any moment he could only jog along, body swaying like a duckling waddling to a pond. The guard bundled Hu aboard and slammed the carriage door shut just as the final whistle blew. People took out pocket handkerchiefs, shouted last messages. Mothers wept and waved. A bedlam of good-byes. With the loudspeakers playing a sprightly folk song, we were off.
    The train moved slowly at first through the railway yards and past the factories that crowded down the railroad tracks, picking up speed beyond the sheds and hovels of the suburban slum, and finally racing as we got out into the countryside.
    As the morning wore on, and the excitement of leaving wore off, conversation in our compartment flagged. I watched the lush landscape pass by. Here in the “Land of Rice and Fish,” south of the Yangzi River, every inch of rich black soil was neatly cultivated up to the very verge of the narrow footpath. The square sails of a junk moved above the tops of the mulberry trees and seemed to be sailing on land.
    Ma Li, curled up in one corner, dozed. The troupe’s soprano, in the seat opposite me, gazed silently out of the window. Chu Hua, a pretty ballerina, dexterously knitted a winter sweater.
    Someone peered into our compartment.
    â€œIs this seat occupied?”
    It was Cheng, the comedian. We had recently seen him playing the steward Malvolio in Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night
. His performance was superb. He gave a sensitive and convincing portrayal of the buffoon in love with his high-born mistress. When he spoke about his unrequited love with anguished tears in his eyes, the audience was moved in spite of the fact that he was clowning. Even I had found myself wishing that Olivia would return hislove, although she, fine lady, would never even dream of being loved by such a clownish inferior. After that performance the nickname “Malvolio” had stuck permanently.
    â€œThere’s plenty of room. Sit here,” Ma Li answered, inviting him to take the empty seat between us.
    He rubbed the top of his head and sat down obediently. His head was oddly shaped: a narrow forehead but broad in the chin. He dressed untidily no matter what he wore. Even his best clothes seemed wasted on him. It was the way he wore them on his ungainly body. He was always playacting. Now he looked like a farmer with his sturdy neck and broad back dressed in an old peasant jacket, a perfect picture of a country bumpkin traveling by train for the first time, sitting straight up on the edge of his seat, a bamboo basket covered with a piece of white cloth balanced on his knees.
    The train attendant, making his rounds with a huge tin kettle, filled our mugs and bowls with tea. I took one sip, frowned, and put my mug down. It was strong red tea such as northern Chinese like; we southern Chinese, especially Shanghai people, love our delicate green teas. Malvolio Cheng, after swallowing down a mouthful, held his mug as embarrassed as though it were he who had poured out the wrong tea and now did not know what to do. At last he put down his mug as I had done.
    â€œPfui,” exclaimed Chu Hua, the young ballet